


Best of Men, and A Love That Burned Brighter Than The Sun

by Artemisofthemoon (insomniac_ficcle)



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Achilles is whipped, Established Relationship, First Love, Fluff, Inspired by The Song of Achilles, M/M, POV Achilles (Song of Achilles), Patroclus is a tease, Romantic Fluff, This is basically Achilles mooning over Patroclus the whole time, Trojan War, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27390310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniac_ficcle/pseuds/Artemisofthemoon
Summary: Patroclus, through Achilles’ eyes.
Relationships: Achilles & Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 400





	Best of Men, and A Love That Burned Brighter Than The Sun

‘Aristos achaion.

_ Achilles.  _

Golden boy, bestowed with grace.

_ Achilles. _

Greatest warrior of his generation

_ Achilles. _

The one who divine blood courses through his veins. Goddess-born. Destined for greatness. 

_ Achilles.’ _

These were just some of the things he’d heard growing up. His mother had told him, and his father told him. Phoinix had said something along those lines to him too, as well as the countless other boys he grew up with in his father’s kingdom. When he went to war, the soldiers would sing songs of his might and valour. 

_ Achilles aristos achaion. _

And what of Patroclus? His lover, best friend, confidant. Patroclus would call him the best of men too, in the privacy of their tent. Laying with him in the mornings before Achilles had to leave for battle, and melting into his embrace after he got back, these were Achilles’ favourite things to do.

In the mornings, they woke up in each other’s embrace. On the rare occasions when Achilles woke first, he would watch silently as Patroclus slept. He took in his features; skin as beautiful as honeyed chestnut, hair darker still, falling in a wild tangle of curls over his face. 

He stirred a little now, brows furrowed in displeasure over whatever his dreams portrayed— and Achilles held his breath in anticipation that he might wake up and grace him with the vibrancy of his eyes, but Patroclus stayed asleep. He shifted subconsciously, holding on tighter to Achilles, and somehow laid even closer to him.

Achilles couldn’t help the smile that broke across his face. He brushed away stray locks of hair from Patroclus’ face and pressed a kiss against his forehead.

* * *

  
War did not make men. Not as his mother told him in that he would win glory and fame, enough to make him a god. Not as his father spoke of the pride and honour it brought to one’s name. Not in the way that the troops lusted after the women and wealth that sat behind the gates of Troy.

No, war made men cold and ruthless. Everyone fought for their lives on the battlefield; it was either kill or be killed. War drove men to extremes. War made survivors of men, and left them with the memories of what they’d had to do for that survival.

In the first few weeks when Patroclus would go onto the battlefield with him, Achilles fought only for him.  _ Protect him. Let no harm come to him. _

And later, after he stopped coming, Achilles fought still with only the thought of returning to his Patroclus. Mind an empty blur of adrenaline and reflexes, he fought and blood spilled over his armour, stained his hands. It was a necessary thing, he’d thought then, that he had to fight. To bolster his name and his honour, and it gave him a twisted kind of satisfaction. Made him giddy with every body that piled on the battlefield next to him.

War did not make a man, he wanted to tell his mother.

  
Patroclus was kind. 

In the evenings when Achilles returned, Patroclus welcomed him, bloodstained and all, with the knowledge that he had killed another mass of men that day. He was kind and soft, and would listen as Achilles told him of the slaughter.

It was his own way of coping with it somehow. Telling Patroclus of the sins he’d committed, the certain heartache he’d probably brought to mothers and wives, and fathers and brothers and sisters. It made Achilles feel slightly lighter afterwards. 

Sometimes, in the midst of his narration, he would search Patroclus’s eyes for any signs of inhibitions, but there were none. 

“Forgive me,” Achilles would murmur anyway, and his heart always skipped a beat when Patroclus smiled in return and told him, “There is nothing to forgive.”

With steady hands and clear eyes, he would help Achilles out of his armor, strip him of the weight on his shoulders for the rest of the day. Sometimes they would go to the creek in the lake behind their tent to bathe together, and sometimes they would lay down and hold each other. Searching gazes and noses brushing preceded the lazy kisses that then followed.

Patroclus made him feel whole again, held him as he was, for Achilles was still just a man, no matter what the rest of the world said. He was Patroclus’ just as much as Patroclus was his.

  
  
  


_ War does not make a man _ , he wanted to tell his mother when he saw her next.  _ Kindness does. _

And Patroclus was the kindest of all the men gathered in the Greek camp.

* * *

Achilles was happy anytime he got to be around Patroclus, and undoubtedly, their happiest of times had been the time spent on Mount Pelion.

He remembered the day on Pelion that marked the beginning of a new chapter for them, a relationship— a bond, an entanglement of souls— that would never end and carry on even into the afterlife.

Because Thetis did not approve of Patroclus, Achilles had to be careful in the way they acted around each other; he did not want Patroclus to get hurt because of him. On Pelion they’d been under Chiron’s tutelage, and away from his mother’s watchful eyes.

His first night being able to hold Patroclus, to kiss him and pull him close and be with him, had unlocked a stirring in Achilles. An even more overwhelming wash of love and affection than he’d thought possible. After then, Achilles would not care what his mother or anyone else thought. It felt like a miracle to have his love returned, and Achilles vowed to cherish that love. To protect it, and protect  _ him _ , no matter what. 

For in his eyes, Patroclus was everything. Achilles loved him, and by the gods’ marvel, Patroclus loved him too.

Years later, their bond would only grow stronger and Achilles would become surer everyday that they were made for each other; two halves of the same piece finally being brought together.

* * *

One day, Achilles would have the closest thing he’d ever had to a disagreement with Thetis.

It was still early on into the war. He rose at dawn from Patroclus’ side, and went to the edge of the campsite where the sea met the river. 

She was already waiting for him. He bowed in respect and greeting first, and then sat at the foot of the embankment as he regarded her. She looked displeased.

“Have you been well, mother?”

Her voice was the sound of waves rolling into the shore. She loved no one else, no other human but him. “I am well,” was all she said in response.

Achilles nodded and let his toes dip into the frigid waters as he pulled up blades of browning grass next to him. “I am sorry for going against your wishes with this war. The damage has been done, so I will see it through to the end.”

Thetis’s face twisted into a cross between a frown and a snarl that would have terrified anyone else. “It was Athena’s will that Odysseus should find you. I did not know of it till it was too late, but son, I told you of the prophecy and yet you fight still.”

The mention of the prophecy predicting his death made Achilles’ fingers go still. “All men die at some point,” he said slowly.

It was unsatisfactory to her. The waters churned and her eyes flashed darkly. “You are not like all other men. You are destined for a greater fate than the rest of them, yet you resist and diminish your grace by choosing to stay with–  _ him. _ ”

Achilles tensed even further as she spat the words out. 

“He sullies your name, your grace, your destiny...and still you stay with him. He is a scourge—”

“He is not.”

“He is a curse against you. Ever since you met him, things have only turned for the worse.”

Achilles’ jaw ticked angrily. “Do not speak of Patroclus that way,” he said tersely. “He is a blessing to me, and has always been.”

“Achilles,” she began, voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Achilles you are the sun. You were meant to shine bright and yet you keep him like a shadow over your brilliance.”

He looked directly at her, his own eyes hard as he met hers. “Mother you do not know how- how he makes me shine. Patroclus could never be a shadow, he shines with his own light.”

Patroclus was a supernova, a star that burned even brighter than the sun, as scholars and astrologers have speculated. He was blinding on his own, why couldn’t she see that?

“I will not let you speak ill of him,” Achilles ground out, rising to his feet. Thetis regarded him wordlessly and shook her head. 

“I fear it will be too late before you realise it,” was the last thing she said before merging into the waters.

* * *

  
“Achilles…  _ Achilles! _ ”  


Achilles turned his attention from the wild antics of the men playing a game to the far side of him.

Patroclus was grinning, eyes lit, teeth flashing in the dark. His curls fell over his eyes in a way that endeared Achilles to no end, and in his hands were four things Achilles couldn’t make out until he tossed one of them to him and mouthed,  _ “Catch.”  _

His reflexes kicked in and he caught the item midair, instantly recognising it as the round fruit settled against his palm. A smile pulled at Achilles’ own face. A memory surfaced from the time they were still just boys and Patroclus had been new to his father’s kingdom. In an attempt to befriend him, Achilles had sat at his table and tossed him a fig after juggling it. Thinking back now, he wondered if that was around the time he’d developed a crush on Patroclus. He used to be so quiet and reserved and treated Achilles as nothing else but a boy, and maybe that was one of the reasons Achilles began to feel drawn to him.

Looking at the radiant smile on Patroclus’ face now, the gleam in his eye, Achilles could tell he was thinking of the same memory.

“Where did you find these?” He asked. He hadn’t tasted figs since the day of his sixteenth birthday, and back then it was Patroclus too who had picked them for him. It was surprising to Achilles now, how many years had passed since then.

“They were part of the things brought back from the raid,” Patroclus told him.

“I did not know this,” Achilles said honestly. There had been a large and successful looting on one of the towns outside of Troy’s gates. He imagined many things had been brought back and gained. They were having a small feast now, to celebrate that. 

The chatter and laughter of men was loud as they passed food, drinks, and women. Agamemnon sat at one end of the long table, flanked on the right by Odysseus and on the left by a few of his advisors.

Achilles had been offered a spot next to them, but he’d been content to sit with Patroclus on the other end of the table. Even Patroclus had urged him to go, assured him that he would be by his side, but Achilles knew how sometimes the conversations held at the head of the table or in the meeting rooms made Patroclus uncomfortable. Agamemnon was uncouth and spoke brutishly of things at every given opportunity, so Achilles had relinquished his seat at that end of the table.

It turned out to have been a good decision because Patroclus was beaming next to him, completely at ease, and maybe a tad drunk from the three cups of wine Achilles had seen him drink. He tossed a second fig now with no warning, and smiled even brighter when Achilles caught it with ease. 

Achilles sat up straighter, turning the fruit over in his hands for a moment before passing a wink at Patroclus. He threw the first in the air, and then the second a moment later, juggling them with practiced ease. Again, it had been years since he’d done this, but the memories came back to him. Him at the dining table with Patroclus, juggling in front of him for the first time. There would be many more times afterwards; in their bedroom, watching Patroclus’ eyes light up at the sight.

He looked briefly at his love now, smiling at him fondly, the soft set of his lips looking ever so inviting. Achilles gave a bare nod, a signal Patroclus knew easily from all their time together. He tossed one of the remaining two figs in his hands into the air for Achilles to add to his act. 

By now, there was a small crowd gathered watching them, almost rowdy in their excitement. The last fig joined the three Achilles was juggling, and the soldiers were deafening in their applause as he kept them balanced and spinning in the air without a slight of hand.

But Achilles’ attention was not on them. His eyes would flicker to Patroclus every so often, warmth thrumming in his veins at the sight of his pleased look. Amusement and mirth danced in his eyes, and something else he recognised all too well.

Achilles’ breath hitched. 

What happened next was not something he’d admit to anyone else, but in that moment when his focus slipped for a split second, he miscalculated the traction of the figs in the air and scrambled a bit to catch them as they tumbled down rather ungracefully around him.

The people around laughed and gave another round of applause, and slowly began to disperse back to their various seats or into smaller groups to sit around mini campfires. 

Achilles let out a slow breath, unable to look away from Patroclus.

“I enjoyed watching you,” Patroclus said. “You are still good as ever.”

The praise tugged another smile out of Achilles. “Thank you,” he murmured, then held out one of his hands, offering a fig to Patroclus. “Here.”

Patroclus looked around for a moment, and Achilles should have caught the mischief in his eyes, but he didn’t. When Patroclus leaned over, settling his hand against Achilles’ own to draw it closer to his mouth, Achilles’ eyes widened.

Patroclus took a bite of the fruit Achilles was still holding, tongue briefly licking the pad of his finger. The action made Achilles startle, a jolt running through him as Patroclus locked eyes with him for a moment before straightening up.

“It is sweet,” Patroclus commented lightly, as if he had not done what he had just done. He took the fruit from Achilles and ate the rest of it on his own. Achilles could only watch, enraptured and wishing he could feed it to him again.

A few minutes later, Patroclus announced, not loudly, but audibly enough for anyone around them to hear: “It’s late… I think I’ll turn in for the night.” 

Achilles’ eyes trailed after him as he stood up and left the table, his figure becoming increasingly hard to see in the darkness the further away he walked.

Achilles took a steadying breath. His finger tingled faintly still from when Patroclus had taken it in his mouth. 

A short moment later, he too left the table without a word, following the same path that would inevitably lead to their tent at the far ends of the camp.

Patroclus was waiting for him. Inside the tent, apart from their shared bed, was a cured animal skin rug that Achilles feet sank into now, a wooden chest for their clothes, a table atop which a candle was lit, and a chair.

It was into this chair now that Patroclus lightly pushed Achilles, taking the three figs he’d brought with him and setting them onto the table. All but one. Patroclus held one fig still cupped in his right hand as he sat against Achilles, easily straddling him.

Achilles’ mouth ran dry, and his gut kicked. “Patroclus you–”

But Patroclus pressed a finger gently to Achilles’ lips, eyes flickering in the lamplight. “You never tried this,” he whispered, a bit amusedly. It was easy to tell he was delighted right now. “I collected them from Odysseus’ tray for you, don’t you want one at least?”

“I do,” Achilles breathed, slightly distracted by the full tilt of Patroclus’ lips. 

Patroclus smiled and offered it to him, pressing the fruit against his mouth. Achilles bit into it, relishing the instant burst of sweetness and tartness on his tongue. Some of the fig’s juice ran down Patroclus’ hand, and Achilles was quick to chase after it, lips closing around skin as he licked every last trace off him. He watched Patroclus shiver on top of him, letting out a pleased hum as he shut his eyes briefly.

Achilles looked up at him, gaze hazy with need already. Patroclus traced his free hand along Achilles’ arm, leaving goosebumps erupting wherever his fingers went.

He had a knowing look on his face as he watched Achilles struggle to remain calm, yet he asked innocently, teasingly, “Another bite?”

Chest heaving slightly, Achilles shook his head.

“Then what, do tell my love, do you want?”

Their fingers interlaced easily, two pieces fitting together, and Achilles let out a slow breath. “A kiss from you,  _ philtatos. _ ”

Patroclus startled a little, blinking in surprise. It was the first time Achilles had referred to him with that term, but he recovered quickly. His eyes grew soft with affection. “If that is what you want.”

He leaned down, head slightly inclined to the side, and kissed Achilles. 

He tasted sweet still, the hint of figs still lingering; mellow and honey-like, a taste that Achilles eagerly welcomed and chased after as his free hand slid up to hold Patroclus at the small of his back. 

Achilles had been in several situations before, many exciting and adrenaline-packed, but none as thrilling as the feeling of kissing Patroclus. He could do it over and over and never tire of it.

When they pulled away, it was to catch their breaths. Patroclus looked at him, eyes dark and low-hooded as he cupped one side of Achilles’ face and smiled. “I know I said it was late, but it’s really not. Agamemnon will be displeased once he learns his best soldier has disappeared. You turned him down once already tonight.”

Achilles did not respond, his attention already turned to littering kisses across Patroclus’ neck which he himself angled to the side to give Achilles better access. Achilles nipped lightly at the base of his collarbone, hands roaming across Patroclus’ sides before settling against his hips. Patroclus shivered on top of him, loving the attention, yet he continued with a breathy tone, “You are  _ aristos achaion _ afterall. The feast is practically being held in your honor since you led the raid today...Agamemnon does not like it, but it would look even worse if you aren’t there—”

Achilles sucked a mark onto the base of his neck, making him cut off with a soft gasp. “Agamemnon and his politics can go to Hades for all I care. They are the furthest things from my mind right now,” Achilles said in a guttural tone. Patroclus laughed, amusement and desire clear in his eyes as he regarded Achilles.

“So I have you for the rest of the night then?” he asked, fingers tracing slowly across Achilles’ face. Brushing his blond hair out of his face, playing over his eyelids, trailing past his cheekbones. Faintly skimming the swell of his lips.

“You have me from now, till eternity and beyond,” Achilles professed softly.

Patroclus smiled. “That is a promise you must keep.”

And he would. Achilles would love him from now on till even long after they lived. It was a love that transcended every future life they would be reborn in; they would always find each other— or Achilles would always find him, that much he was sure of— for as long as the spark between them carried. “I will,” he swore. And then, “Kiss me again,” he implored.

Patroclus did.

* * *

To Achilles, Patroclus was everything. There could be no him without Patroclus, and it was a fact he’d known since the beginning.

When men spoke, they often carried praise of Achilles in favour of Patroclus’ own greatness.  _ Best of Greeks, _ they called him.  _ Aristos Achaion.  _ His name was always on their lips;  _ Achilles, Achilles, Achilles. _

But they were wrong. They did not see Patroclus as he really was. In Achilles eyes, he shone brighter than any sun men had declared he himself to be, burned hot and brilliantly, and loved in far greater measures that any of them could ever hope to compare to.

He was compassionate, and his kindness was without prejudice. How could no one see that? He was better than them all. Better than Achilles could ever be.

He was the best of men, and Achilles’ love for him ran deeper than the oceans, threatened the skies, and burned brighter than the sun.

  
  



End file.
